Hetalia One-Shots
by exlempode
Summary: Stories about different characters (Including OC's) and my views on them. I will take requests of characters to do, and different themes. There'll be more than one for each character, including many of my own views. There will be songfics, HetaOni, random scenes and major OOCness. If you're into slightly darker stuff, enjoy!


As soon as he closed the door to his house, returning from a World Meeting, the massive grin fell from his face. The brightness in his eyes dimmed, now numb and lifeless. He moved slowly and carefully, removing his bomber jacket and hanging it on the coat rack next to the front door, taking off his glasses and carefully placing them in their case on his coffee table. His house was large, filled with technology, but looked as if someone with OCD lived there, and was completely clean. Alfred walked to his room, taking off his shoes and placing them by the door before moving to the bed. He slid onto it, laying back and staring at the ceiling. At the meeting, everyone would yell at him, fight with him, call him stupid. He was really smart, you know. He would always have these great ideas, and then he would stand up and announce that he had a plan, and everyone would turn to him. For just a split second, scenes would flash through his head. Them insulting him, laughing at him, making fun of him like they always would. And then, he would yell that he was the Hero and everyone would follow him, and the others would sigh. He could only ever disappoint people.

_Why does everyone hate me so much...?_

His country was falling apart, slowly plunging into chaos. Nothing was going right. Everything was so fake, and then there was... He felt it again. That shock going through his body, a moment where he couldn't breathe, both his wrists burning and words ringing through his head. It stopped as soon as it started, leaving him gasping for breath. Sometimes it would happen in public. To the others, anyone who saw or noticed, it was always a car accident, old age, sometimes even murder. He knew exactly what it really was, though. Eleven or Twelve times a month now, he got the same exact feeling. Each time, the words _I'm Sorry _on his right wrist and _Goodbye_ on his left would cut a little deeper into his skin, seeming to be carved by a thin blade. Suicide. So many times he had wished to feel that sweet relief. Liquid filling his lungs as the water wrapped around him like a blanket; the thrill of plummeting to the ground for a few short seconds before everything goes black; feeling some kind of poison, drug or chemical race through his body to sent his heart or lungs pumping too fast, or perhaps too slow. Maybe even get out a blade and feel the blood drain from his body as everything blurred and faded. He craved it, to feel the life seeping from his body.

_Stupid... Fat... Weak... Useless... You're no hero._

Breathe in. Breathe out. Nothing. Breathe in, breathe out, nothing. No tears, no sadness, no grief or despair. Merely a creeping depression, leaving him down and turning him numb. It had been like that for so long now. It was months ago, when he looked down and finally saw the fat going away. Everyone was always telling him not to eat so much junk food, little did they know it turned to ash in his mouth anyway. His throat was raw from all the times he'd vomited up food, his stomach incredible thin and hollow. You could count all of his ribs. Inside of his shirt was padding to make him seem healthy, but every time he looked down on his stomach after the puking and the pills, all he could see was fat. How else could he stop people from insulting him? But it never stopped, there was always something to complain about. So many times he had drawn a blade across his wrists, often going all along his upper arms to his shoulders and down along his stomach and legs. One day, the cuts would fill his body, taking his mind off depression to focus on the brilliant pain. The next day, the scars would be erased, leaving him alone and cold yet again. Breathe in, breathe out, nothing. He still couldn't breathe, no matter how many times he tried. It never felt like enough. It would never be enough.

_Its all pain and emptiness, my brain gone numb, why can't I feel anything?_

He took a knife from the bedside table, sighing in relief as pain blossomed in his upper arms. Over and over and over again. He didn't stop until the burning forced him to drop the knife, arms falling limply to his sides. What if he was to end it? Everyone would be happy or uncaring, but would there be any grief? He doubted it. If he were to die, all of his problems would go away. No more insults. No more depression. No more problems with dealing with the weight of his country, no more putting on some stupid act that only made him more hated anyway. All of his problems would be solved. The more he thought about it, the better the idea seemed. Did he have any friends? Any family that cared about him? Did he hold a single bit of importance in the lives of others? The answer was simple, no. He sat up, moving over to his desk and scrawling a short note, shoving it in his pocket. He had practically a mansion, and in the middle was an incredibly tall flagpole showing the flag of his country. He made his way to the roof, every step making him more certain that this was the right thing to do. He made it to the top, and glanced at the setup. If he were to make a noose with the rope, he would be suspended in the air for everyone to see, his flag waving above him. The irony. He grabbed the rope, pulling it down as far as he could and quickly tying the noose. He then, with the rope around one arm, started scaling the flagpole until he was at the top, one foot on a small peg to help keep himself up. He loosened the knot, slipping it around his neck. All of his problems could be solved now. He looked over at the beautiful sunset in front of him, and smiled. _Goodbye sun, I'll miss you. Goodbye stars, goodbye moon. Goodbye to this life. _ He took out the note, crumpling it and holding it in his hand. The last thing he saw was the sun fading over the horizon as he jumped. there was a rush, a snap, a moment of pain, and then it was over.

_All of my problems are solved._


End file.
